The French Mistake
by Enochian Whisperer
Summary: A fiction in which it's Castiel who winds up in an alternate universe, where neither angels nor demons exist, and he lands in the shoes of an actor called "Misha Collins".
1. Chapter 1

Castiel was beginning to infringe on the realm of desperation. Sure, he had Balthazar on his side, who had willingly joined the fight against Raphael–after a little bit of _persuading_–and Balthazar had been a valuable asset with all of the weapons he stole from Heaven's arsenal, but somehow Raphael had managed to get the jump on them. Castiel didn't know how*, but Raphael found weapons of his own to use, and many of them were nasty biters. Including, but not limited to, David's Sling, Samson's Locks, and the Crown of Thorns. Upon receiving word from one of his informants, Castiel ordered his scouts to retreat immediately. The last thing he heard was the screaming of his soldiers being slaughtered. The frequency cut out a second later, and the commander gripped the back of the park bench he was standing beside.

Castiel's eyes searched the air, as if trying to reach back out to his fallen brothers and sisters. He didn't receive an answer.

"—Castiel, I know you're there."

He froze.

That voice was unmistakable.

Raphael dusted off her sleeve vainly, as her dark eyes combed over the corpses that were only moments earlier animate. Five low-tier angels in all. Certainly no match for her. She found herself annoyed that she didn't reach this squad in time to keep them from sending word back to their captain. So much for the element of surprise. She did, however, manage to snag a shared frequency with Castiel before it escaped her, and she opened the line back up.

"...Fine. Don't answer." she continued. Castiel was afraid, and she knew it. This was desirable. "I suggest you start running. At any moment, those sigils you're wearing will be faulted."

Castiel glanced down at his arms. He yanked up his sleeves to reveal intricate symbols he drew on himself in Enochian. Before his eyes, the sigils began to erase from his skin.

"Consider this warning this a kindness from your enemy."

Kindness? No, Raphael was just being arrogant. She had the upper hand and naturally she had to make Castiel very aware of it. Raphael was a proud individual sometimes. He knew this from experience. He also knew when to tuck tail and flee.

Castiel warped, vanishing into thin air at the speed of light. He quickly manifested inside of what looked like a dark industrial garage, and immediately warded himself in. He laced the walls with invisible sigils and redrew the markings on his arms with a Sharpie that he'd been smart enough to pocket. His angel blade materialized and he waited in silence. Waited and listened.

"...Balthazar, where are you?" he muttered, eyes shifting around the room as he backed up a few steps.

"You know, Cas, though I love you as a brother, I still—_really_ don't like you for dragging me into this-" Castiel started when suddenly his best friend had his back. Quite literally.

"I didn't drag you into anything," the commander argued as he telepathically closed up the narrow opening he left in his sigil-work for his brother to find.

"I had a marvelous little setup. I was living in peace and comfort. But when you barged into my new private life, you put Raphael on my trail," the deserter replied bitingly. "And then the pompous bastard was going to kill you... I couldn't have that. I put myself in the line of fire for you, and now I'm a wanted man. What choice did I have but to ally myself with you for my survival? ...AND you were going to let Gigantor "deep-fry my wings extra crispy", by the way, after I saved your arse-"

"You became a wanted man the second you _raided Heaven's armory,_" Castiel corrected abrasively. To this, Balthazar couldn't cough up a rejoinder. Castiel had missed Balthazar sorely in the time that he was presumed dead, but now that they were back together, the angel couldn't help feeling annoyance. He, too, loved his brother, and he had many-a-word he'd have liked to say, but this was not the time for theatrics.

"...Do you think we lost them?" Balthazar asked at last.

"I'm not feeling anything," Castiel responded, though his gaze was still reaching beyond the room.

"...Wonderful," said his brother, "Well, you've managed to box us in at least. It'll only be a matter of time before they break our barriers or they flush us out like game birds. What's our next move?"

Castiel considered what little options they had.

"...We need to get those weapons from Raphael."

"Obviously. How do we do that?"

"...If anyone is bearing those weapons, it has to be-"

"Don't say it-" Balthazar's face pinched up, as if he was on the verge of a migraine.

"Virgil."

Balthazar sighed.

"We have to go after him," Castiel said.

"I was afraid it would come to that..." The blond rubbed the back of his neck.

"You've done it once before," his friend told him, "You managed to steal _all_ of Heaven's weapons-"

"Only because he had his back turned for two seconds-"

"You need to do it again, Balthazar."

"Virgil has a _raging hard-on for me, Cas_," Balthazar told the brunette emphatically, "He's been trying to track me for a year and a half now, and you want me to _bare myself out in the open and dare him to come get me?_"

"...Yes."

"Unbelievable-" Balthazar turned away from his brother. "... You've really changed since I've been gone."

"It hasn't been that long," Castiel pointed out.

"...Right. Well, how do you propose we get out of this corner we've driven ourselves into?"

"I have an idea."

"Great. What is it?"

Castiel showed Balthazar his blade, and painlessly slit his own, still-exposed arm. Balthazar watched as the overcoated angel knelt and began painting a sigil on the floor with his vessel's blood. When Balthazar caught on to what he had in mind, his eyes turned up to the ceiling in exasperation.

"Oh..._ fuck me._"

– – –

After Castiel finished the sigil, he erased the Enochian on his skin, uttered a command in their native language and the barriers on the garage walls dropped. Instantly the room was flanked with enemy angels. Castiel's bloodied palm slapped the concrete and every last angel was shot from the room, Castiel and Balthazar included. Getting jettisoned by an angel banishment sigil was an acutely unpleasant experience. It stunned Grace, for that matter, depending on how strong the banishment was. To describe it more concretely, it was like tazing a human being. Just as it takes time for a human to recover from getting tazed, it takes time for an angel to regain its ability to travel using _Hafitzat Haderech_. Although Balthazar was thankful for Castiel's ingenuity, it hurt like a _bugger_. Balthazar found himself collapsed, stomach-down, on the sandy shoreline of God-knows-where. He didn't pick up his head for a good quarter-minute, just looking upshore, at the treeline of palms, and listening to the cawing of gulls. But then he heaved himself up faster that a frantic fish vaulting itself on a dry surface.

He looked around, and quickly flexed his energy. No good. It pained him, and he nearly keeled over from the strain. For now, it looked like he was out of harm's way, but he couldn't say the same for Castiel.

– – –

Castiel's eyes shot open, only for them to squint in repulsion to the rainfall assaulting his face. With a grunt, he swung up to a sitting pose and discovered—he was _soaked_. How long had he been out?

Something else was happening. There was a man speaking to him.

"_Jesi li dobro gospodine?_ _Bolnica?_ _Trebate li bolnicu?_"

The man was asking him if he needed to go to the hospital. Castiel had landed in the middle of what appeared to be a cobble-stoned street, tucked comfortably between rows of tall, but quaint buildings. A village?

The man was sputtering rapid-fire how he saw a very bright light while walking and he rounded the corner and found him lying there. Castiel gestured him away with awkward motions.

"—_Ja sam u redu._" I'm alright.

Castiel picked himself up, much to the man's surprise, and stalked off into the dark, leaving the human, tucked into his jacket, bewildered. The angel opened up a line and sent a message to Balthazar. He had no idea where his friend was, but they could hopefully meet back up after a few minutes of much-needed rejuvenation. He felt a dull ache rattling his Grace.

– – –

Virgil stood with Raphael. They were alone in a snowy field. Snow flurried around them and visibility distances had been narrowed down to about a mile. Maybe less. Raphael's eyes squinted and flakes caught in her long black hair.

"_Find them_," she said, "And when you do... you know what must be done."

Virgil wordlessly acknowledged her with a stone-face expression, then vanished.

– – –

When Castiel was able to travel again, he bee-lined straight for St. Louis. He had previously arranged a small coffee shop to be their unspoken rendevous point in case of emergencies. Castiel managed to slip into the human traffic without being noticed, and he sat down in one of the tight little booths, waiting for his brother to show face. When he didn't, Castiel became concerned. It had already been close to two hours. One of the baristas had come around and asked him to leave if he wasn't going to order anything. The angel got up and left without a word. He stumbled out into the streets of downtown St. Louis and considered sending a distress call to Balthazar, but he feared that it might get intercepted, so he didn't.

Castiel managed to ward himself again, so maybe the sigils had something to do with it? But if Balthazar's intention was _solely_ to arrive in St. Louis for the sake of arriving at the destination, then he shouldn't be having problems. If Balthazar was trying to _trace_ him here, then he might have some issues. The sigils Castiel now wore were not mean to shield. Simply camouflage.

So when Castiel was suddenly grabbed and hauled into a passing alley, he immediately suspected that his attacker was an angel. And he was right on the money when he recognized it was Virgil who had him at knife-point.

Castiel's breathing became stiff, and his expression hard. Virgil walked him backwards in silence, to a cellar door that slanted up from the pavement and joined a brick wall. On the door was a sigil painted in blood. It didn't take a genius to figure out what exactly that sigil's purpose was. For one more flickering second, he thought of Balthazar.

Castiel fought back. He shoved Virgil off long enough to whip his weapon out and blades clashed. They struggled to one-up one another, but Virgil had a slight advantage. The angel in the black overcoat rammed a foot against Castiel's stomach and sent him staggering back against the blood-stained cellar door. The wood boards creaked under his weight and before he had time to roll off, Virgil was there, driving his blade down on his torso. Castiel caught the blade and tried to force it back, away from his chest. The wood under his back cracked under their combined weight, but he couldn't worry about that. Castiel looked frantically for any openings he could use—

_SNAP!_

Sudden momentum gave way, and the two angels fell into a gaping dark void.

– – –

Castiel didn't know what was happening, but the noise battering his ears was that of a discord by his own making. He was flipped back and when he came to a full stop, not only was he winded, but he was in _pain._

Groaning, his hand groped blindly for his abdomen. Virgil's blade slipped when they fell.

Virgil—

Castiel was alert and scrambled-however much it hurt-to get up. He was still, listening in the dark. The fight wasn't over... but Virgil didn't seem to be here. Everything was quiet. His hand traced along the wall... _walls_. This space was extremely closed in. His breathing sounded too close. He reached about in the dark for an exit. Castiel grit his jaw, but something akin to panic was seeping through the cracks. And then he heard something. A clamor. He heard voices coming from one of the walls and he leaned up against it. Thankfully, _thankfully_, he found a doorknob. He twisted it, but it was stuck. The clamor was becoming more distinguished. Voices. People.

"_I think someone's in there-_"

The knob jangled.

"_Vince, open it up!_" a female voice exclaimed.

"_I don't have a key!_" a man's voice hissed.

"_Hey, who's in there?_" the female asked through the door. Castiel didn't answer. Instead he focused on applying pressure to the warm, sticky wound on his stomach.

"_Hello?!_"

"_Hold on, I'm getting the custodian-_"

"_Are you okay in there?!_"

Rapping on other side of the door began to grate on his nerves within a matter of seconds.

"—_Stop doing that_," Castiel's gravelly voice commanded. The rapping stopped.

"..._Misha? Is that you?_"

Who?

Footfalls closed in rapidly.

"_Yeah, I think there's someone locked in here-_"

"_It's Misha!_" the female said.

"_Misha?! Holy smokes- unlock the door!_"

Keys jangled. One skid into the lock and twisted. The knob clicked, and the door was pulled open faster than Castiel anticipated. He nearly fell out, onto a party of three people.

"Misha!" the only woman present exclaimed, "Oh my god!"

"Misha, we've been looking everywhere for you-"

"We found him!" the woman said, into the mic of a walkie-talkie, "We found Misha!"

"What were you doing in the closet?"

_Blip._ "_You found him?_"

"Yeah, somehow he got himself locked in the janitorial closet!"

Too much. Too much was being thrown at him at once.

"Misha, you okay?"

_Blip. _"_Well get his ass down here! We were supposed to start shooting a half-hour ago!"_

The clamoring died when the girl stopped squawking and look down at Castiel's abdomen. Everyone was silent. Castiel reluctantly followed their line of sight. Blood was seeping through his white shirt, soaking through the fabric, now visible from where the wound site was hidden beneath the folds of his coat. The hole in his overcoat was leaking a thin stream of red fluid as well.

"...Is that stage blood?" the woman asked, paling. "..._Please tell me that's stage blood-_"

"... _That's not stage blood-_"

Castiel's knees buckled.


	2. Chapter 2

Jensen had been working himself up to jump in character, curling his voice how Dean would when saying "_Oh yeah?_". The actor's mask fell and he frowned. He'd run lines again and again with Jared and Misha, but the dialogue that had been written for Dean still didn't quite sit with him. He—_Dean_— was supposed to have an argument with Sam in which Castiel would make a poor attempt to mediate. The argument would get so heated that the brothers part ways—with Castiel tailing Dean. The majority of the episode would be a small tangent where Dean and Castiel would spend some more quality time working a case together while Castiel tries to steer Dean back to Sam.

It was ironic, he thought, since he didn't get along all that much with Jared in real life; it should've been no problem channeling his real aggression into the fight. But the subject of their quarrel was just _asinine_, and yes he'd been very forward with that particular word towards Robert Singer.

Not only that, but why were the writers glueing Cas on_ him_ again? Why not stick him on Sam for once? He understood the whole "profound bond" dynamic, but now it seemed like it was just getting overplayed. Sam barely got any one-on-one time with the angel so far. It was weirdly disproportionate to him, not to mention unfair, considering that Sam usually wound up with the short end of the stick to begin with. But, they'd already shot the fight scene, and Jared had been sent home for the day. It was done. Though now Misha had disappeared to God knows where and Bob and his little posse were on the verge of herniating–

There was a flurry of commotion. Jensen snapped out of character as crewmen were scuffling by him. On the other side of the way, he saw Bob and the posse rise from their chairs. Jensen picked up a light jog in their direction.

"_Oh, god_," he heard Bob say into his walkie when drawing close. Jensen pitched a brow.

"Bob? What's going on?"

"They found Misha," said co-producer Kevin Parks, and Jensen's attention turned to him. "He's been mugged—_ stabbed_— I don't know-"

Jensen's face froze.

"..._What?_"

– – –

Misha Collins, ever the tweetaholic, was typing up his next tweet on the way to the restroom. A coy little grin played on his face as he eagerly finished a clever comment about how "More #_DeanCas_ [was] to come in the near future. Stay tuned, mishamigos!" It was no secret that Misha supported the pairing which was gaining alarming popularity within the _Supernatural_ fanbase. Of course, nowhere in the actual script was "DeanCas" being explicitly canonized; though there would be enough subtext to send rabid fangirls spiraling into next week. Now, what his followers did with that information was out of his hands. It was up to them entirely. The Boston native chuckled a bit to himself. He really enjoyed trolling his fans.

Almost immediately the retweets and favorites began to pile up. His grin broadened.

Misha found the men's room and without further ado, he pushed his way into male-exclusive domain.

A sudden snap of cold air jostled the actor and pulled his eyes from his cell phone. He stopped in his tracks entirely.

The door closed behind him, and he found himself having stepped out of the building onto a sidewalk flush with pedestrians. Misha blinked in disbelief, and his mouth hung slightly ajar. Nobody seemed to take him into account, and he wheeled back around, yanking open the door he had come out of. A startled woman gasped. She had been trying to leave by the same way, and he shallowly apologized, squeezing by her. He entered what appeared to be a café, which was clearly busy. Stunned by what he was seeing, his eyes scanned the room, and he resisted the urge to pinch himself.

"_...Whoa'kay..._," he said slowly to no one, still glancing about with wide eyes, "_Note to self:_ _Lay off on the-..._"

As if a stroke of genius had been bestowed upon an prestigious artist, Misha found sudden inspiration for his next tweet. The phone came back up and, stepping precisely aside to unblock the doorway, he drawled each word to himself aloud as he typed:

"_Whoa. This is wild_. _One sec I'm on set, next I'm in _#dicksp8jr_'s_-"

"_Cas!_"

Naturally, Misha responded to the name of his alter ego and looked up. Unfortunately, however, he failed to detect where it had come from.

Balthazar had seen his best friend enter the café, only to get stopped up for some indiscernible reason. While his friend stared about space, the blond angel had found himself a booth in a little niche tucked in beside the door. He noticed right away that Castiel's unmistakable beige coat was missing—a curious sight, but there were more pressing matters at hand. No room to ask. Balthazar watched his brother pull out a cell phone. To call the Winchesters-?

"_Cas!_" he hissed again, leaning out from his table. Misha heard his name—well, it was pretty much synonymous with "Misha" these days—and he looked over his shoulder. Surprise crossed his face and he was lured in.

"Sebastian?" he questioned in a voice unnaturally high for Castiel. Without being invited to sit, Misha slid into the booth, and noted Balthazar's untouched coffee while doing so. "I thought you were in Britain with your-"

"_What?_" Balthazar's face crinkled in confusion. Misha hesitated.

"–girlfriend."

This nearly disarmed Balthazar completely.

"...Are you mad?" he finally asked.

"No... but I'm _really confused_ _right now_-"

"Are you _mad?_" the angel was nearly demanding to know, "We just _escaped_ _from Raphael_, and I've been sitting here twiddling my thumbs like nothing's going on, _waiting for your sorry arse to show up for __**nearly an hour**__—_"

Oh. Sebastian was in character. It seemed the troll was being trolled himself. Misha cracked up once it dawned on him, throwing his head back as boisterous laughter rolled up from his chest, drawing a few eyes to them.

Balthazar couldn't believe what he was witnessing.

"_Oh—!_ _You really got me, Seb—,_" Misha was trying to collect himself but this whole situation was so absurd that he could think of no better way to respond. Balthazar was not amused.

"I thought they got you. _I thought you were dead_."

"Oh man, I gotta tweet this–" Again Misha returned to his phone, like a slave to his master. Really, Misha's social media addiction was quite disconcerting sometimes.

"What happened to you, Castiel...?" the angel asked quietly, stark concern inked on his features. Surely, the man before him was the embodiment of his brother in arms, the physical manifestation. But something was very wrong about him. Not only could Balthazar see it, he could feel it. Though he was still recovering from having gotten tazed by that banishment sigil, he pushed to project himself about the man sitting in front of him. A distinct lack of celestial presence left a hollowness in Balthazar's perception. This wasn't Castiel.

It was his vessel.

Balthazar lunged a hand forward and seized Misha's wrist. Misha flinched and the two of them locked eyes.

"...Sebastian, what are you doing-?" Misha was starting to become extremely put-off by his friend's facade once again. It had been a good laugh, but now he was starting to worry himself. Just what the hell was Sebastian playing at?

"Where is he?" Balthazar demanded, grip tightening, "Your angel, _where is he?_"

"Ow- OW!" Misha squeaked. "What-? What are you talking about-"

So he had no idea.

Balthazar dragged Misha from the booth, with the actor protesting and pleading for an explanation in a manner that was really just embarrassing, and in a blink they were both gone, with an outcry on the human's lips stifled as they departed.


End file.
